


fuck, marry, kill

by dames_for_jamesbarnes



Series: more than a game, you and me [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Daily Life on the Starship Enterprise (Star Trek), Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Reader, Medical Professionals, Reader-Insert, Starship Enterprise (Star Trek), Workplace Sex, nurse reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:01:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24275521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dames_for_jamesbarnes/pseuds/dames_for_jamesbarnes
Summary: A silly game from your college days gets interrupted, leaving you to think over how you really feel about the great Dr. McCoy.
Relationships: Christine Chapel & Reader, Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Reader, Montgomery "Scotty" Scott & Reader
Series: more than a game, you and me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1755634
Comments: 5
Kudos: 79





	fuck, marry, kill

**Author's Note:**

> for resources about how to support the black lives matter movement, go to blacklivesmatter.carrd.co --> "how you can help". all of the other links are incredible resources as well for education and understanding about the movement.

“Goddammit, bastard, son of a fucking bitch,” you hissed, shaking your hand after yanking it back from the control panel next to your shower. It had the gall to shock you, one that rippled down your arm and almost made your other hand drop the towel you clung to for decency. Somehow the same steady hands that could wield a pair of hypodermics and a tricorder without thinking about it managed to break every other piece of equipment on the Enterprise. 

A year since you got transferred, a year since the last major headache, and you had managed to build up a routine. Waking up to beta shifts until the six-month mark when you transferred to alpha shifts that gave you more to do without the headaches of fighting artificial daylight. Crew physicals and routine exams for viruses carried onboard from earth until all the crew had been cleared. Lunches six hours in, dinner six hours after that, followed by a jog, some yoga, a shower, and then… repeat. 

It was a good routine. One that made you friends with other nurses in blue and engineers in red and a few on the captain track who came in more often because of their proximity to the action. You could now say “hello” to Sulu and “good morning” to Chekov and other niceties to a couple other officers. And they’d smile back, and all in all nothing was disrupted. Your routine kept you going.

But now, that routine was stopped in its tracks. 

With a little huff, you shook your head. Fortunately for you, your connections through routine hypos and the occasional healing after a scuffle gave you one particularly good friend. One who was very good at fixing up the Enterprise in any state she was in. And because of your clumsiness and tendency to get shocked, that friend was simply a comm unit away. Decency first, of course.

“Y/N to Scotty.” 

“Aye, lass, Scotty here.” 

A sigh of relief that he wasn’t on break, or worse, sleeping. That’d been a bear you wouldn’t want to disturb more than once. Your fingers tapped away, allowing his voice to fill the room rather than sound tinny coming from the communicator and your hands to hunt for a shirt.

“Yeah, we’ve got a situation. My shower isn’t working?” 

“Is that right,” the chief engineer replied, and you could tell by his voice that under the amusement there was distraction. Your problem was not the only one on his plate, then. Or at the very least, not his main focus. 

“Yeah, that’s right. Shocked me, as a matter of fact, when I tried to get it going.” 

“Mmm.” Make that a lot of distraction. 

“Scotty?” 

“Yeah, lass?” 

“Can you come fix it?” 

“Fix what?”

With a soft sigh you pulled your shirt over your head, shaking out your hair before pulling it up into something passable for company. 

“My shower, Scott. Y’know, again, the one that shocked me. That’s not turning on. That shower.” 

“Shocked you? Well, this is the first I’m hearing about it,” he scoffed, indignant, and your eyes went wide with disbelief before you heard his chuckle. 

“Oh, so I’m the entertainment for this evening, then,” you muttered with a scowl, scrounging around for the pants you just had on and the regulation zip-up you could walk around the halls in. 

“Of course, Y/L/N,” he retorted. “I was wondering when the next time you’d call was. After all, it’s been, what, almost a week since our last incident with the replicator, hasn’t it been?” 

“Two weeks, thank you,” you snapped, the pants snatched off the floor and shaken out with a vengeance. One foot began making its way inside the leg of the pants, the other hopping on the floor. “Monty, please, I just got off shift, I’m tired, and I’m sweaty, and there were three cases of Takarian bronchiolitis that we had to treat with airborne precautions. Never mind next week’s also Christine’s birthday, who I love with all of my heart but the party I got roped into planning for, of fucking – agh!” 

“Y/N!” 

Bouncing on one leg could only last for so long, of course. Your head thankfully did not contact anything with a hard surface. Your ass, however, got the brunt of the blow, specifically your tailbone.

“Y/N?” 

When you groaned, you heard the relief, as well as the stifled laughter. 

“Can you just please come fix my shower? I think there’s an analgesic hypo with my name on it back in the med bay.” 

-

Of course, you weren’t one to completely bypass the rules. The Enterprise had enough of that in places other than the medical unit, and your chief medical officer, Dr. McCoy, was a stickler for right and wrong and lines that shouldn’t be crossed. So, your hypodermic needle was checked out by Christine, administered by her, and all logged and dated with a note about the situation. And, because your appointment didn’t technically end for another fifteen minutes, there was enough time for a little bit of gossip. 

Your type of news always was the kind of shit that got the whole crew talking. The next adventure, who was sleeping with who, the drama that came out of confessions when the ship was falling apart. Anything to work through the monotony. But Christine’s favorite topic was almost always you, much to your chagrin. 

“You know I don’t have a love life,” you said with a roll of your eyes, sitting up on the biobed and letting your feet dangle off of the edge. “That hasn’t changed in the three days since you asked me last.” 

“I do know you’re at the very least no fun about it,” she responded with an eye roll, fingers tracing over your vitals the bed collected and reported. “There’s hundreds of people on this ship, and you’re telling me that none of them catch your eye? What about the chief engineer?” 

Immediately your eyes widened, and you couldn’t help the laugh that left you. “Scotty? No. No, no, we’re just friends, aggressively friends. He keeps me around because I’m the only one who gives him stuff to do during the night shifts. Without me breaking lightbulbs it’d be too dull.” 

Of course, her eyebrow crept up in suspicion, but when your gaze held steady, she dropped her eyes, waving a hand like the idea was preposterous anyway.

“All right. So, no Scotty. Any ensigns?” 

“No.” 

“Lieutenants?” 

“No.” 

“Cadets?” 

“Oh, my god, Christine,” you gasped out with a laugh, jumping off of the biobed, smacking her on the arm. “Stop it.” Your eyes glanced around the med bay, but just like every beta shift began, it was pretty damn quiet. Not a soul in sight besides the two of you. “There’s no one.” 

“Well, you’re no fun,” she sighed, pushing off of the wall to meet you nose to nose. “But there’s gotta be someone who at least catches your eye, right?” 

“Chris…” 

“Someone on this ship you’d be willing to fuck – “ 

“No, we’re not – “ 

“- marry, maybe – “ 

“Christine, I swear to god – “ 

“- or kill?” 

Again, your eyes darted around, but at that point the game had been called. A throwback to your time in the academy, when your classmates would find the local bars and a booth to heckle each other in. When passersby would be unknowingly subjected to a game based on nothing but good fun, and usually a whole lot of booze. 

Simple premise. Three names called out. Each gets a label, and the rounds continue until the players decide they’ve had enough. Called anywhere, at any time, and Christine had thrown the gauntlet. 

“You’re on duty,” you pointed out, but you leaned back on the biobed, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“And if there’s a patient I’ll tend to them. But you’ve got nowhere to be, and if I have a say we’re finding someone on this ship for you,” she pointed out, before swiping your scans away from the vicinity and joining you on the bed. “Three rounds. I bet you I can do it in three rounds.” 

With an eye roll you proceeded to glare at her, but her grin did not budge once, and with a sigh you just nodded. 

“Perfect. Why don’t we start with a throwback? Old classmates? Harrison, Twyla, and Betty.”  
Your smile crept up on your face, and without a second thought you rattled it off. “Fuck Twyla, marry Harrison, kill Betty. Obviously.” Considering that two of the three weren’t even on the ship, you knew that it was more a warmup than anything. Lots of pretty people at the Starfleet Academy. 

“All right. And then… oh, what about the bridge crew?” 

“Christine,” you groaned, hand smacking over your face. “We’re in public.” 

“There’s no one here, and you can’t chicken out of the second round! Look, we’ll do… Lieutenant Sulu, Lieutenant Uhura, and Ensign Chekov.” 

Your jaw clenched. Forget about saying hi to Sulu ever again. 

“I would… I would…” 

“C’mon. You can say it, Y/N.” 

“Fine, fine!” But you couldn’t help your laughter as you shoved Christine’s arm again. “I would… I would fuck Uhura, marry Sulu, and – “ 

“And kill Chekov? He’s got a baby face! You’re gonna kill him where he stands!” 

“Christine, this is not real life,” you reminded her with a hiss, shaking your head before beginning to walk towards the door. “I’m leaving before I end up having to resign.”  
“Oh, no! We’ve got one more go.” 

“I’m walking. My tailbone doesn’t even hurt anymore. The miracle of modern medicine.” 

“Y/N!”

“What?” 

“Captain Kirk.” 

“No, Christine.” 

“Commander Spock.” 

“Stop!” 

“And Dr. Mccoy!” 

“What about me?” 

Your heart stopped. 

“Nurse Y/L/N, is that right?” Dr. McCoy, the man himself, stated, raising a brow as he moved into the med bay, boxes stacked up in his hand. Christine did the smart thing, moving forward to help the doctor carry them inside, but your feet were cemented to the floor, mouth a little agape, color flooding your cheeks. 

“Y-Yes! Hello, sir, I was just – uh, I was just –“ you stammered, turning to follow them both with your eyes as their load was dropped on one of the biobeds. “Well. I was just leaving, really.” 

“She had an appointment,” Christine offered, her best and most polite smile on for your shared boss, who seemed too tired to do more than nod. “And we were just discussing… shifts?” 

“Shifts.” Again, Dr. McCoy’s brow raised, and with skilled fingers he reached to slide them along the seam, a hiss sounding out as they opened up, bearing unloaded hypodermics, some bandaging supplies. 

“Shifts.” Your voice was weak as you confirmed it, but while his eyes were down Christine gave you a subtle nod, winking even as you scowled at her. “You see, I was just – I was just wondering if I could take the beta shift next week, and… well. That’s a change I need you to sign off on. Dr. M’Benga and dr. Olson didn’t have a preference when I asked them.” 

“Uh-huh,” was the gruff response, and as his fingers reached up to scratch at his chin, something like amusement seemed to play in his eyes. Although, thinking about it, you reasoned it was probably just the exhaustion and the lights in the med bay you saw instead. 

“So, you scheduled an appointment with Christine and my medbay, takin’ up one of the biobeds here, to talk about shift changes?” 

“No. No, no, it wasn’t just about that,” you got out, more heat rising to your cheeks, and thankfully your feet were moving backwards, towards the door, as their hands slid into gloves and prepped the new cargo for treatment. 

“She… took a spill in her quarters. Needed an analgesic. I did a scan to make sure it wasn’t anything more than a bruised tailbone and then gave her a dose of lidocaine for the area and acetaminophen for the pain.” Of course, Christine could chime in, sounding composed, while you had just managed to regain motor functioning. 

“I see,” McCoy responded, and there was a brief moment where you were sure he was gonna call your bluff. You didn’t even remember right away that there was a hypo-stick in the first place, and the lidocaine definitely did not happen, right? But then, something, almost like a smirk washed over his features. They relaxed, and those eyes lit up again, deep and dark and warm. It was like taking a shot of whiskey, the sour leaving behind something that made your breath catch. 

“You know you could just say you fell on your ass, Nurse Y/L/N.”

The stories about Dr. McCoy in a nutshell. No southern charm, just a sweet Georgian gut punch. Humor hiding in the comment, of course, but at that point your embarrassment made it taste pretty damn bitter. 

Thankfully, though, the moment was gone. The smirk vanished, the exhaustion seemed to settle over him like a blanket, and his eyes glanced toward you once again before shrugging. “Beta shift works for me. Just don’t let it screw with your head too much and find someone who’s willing to trade.” 

“That’s… yes. Well - good night, sir,” you got out, biting your lower lip, bowing your head before shooting another glare at Christine. “Good night, Nurse Chapel, and I’ll see you both… when I see you.” 

“Good night, Y/N,” Christine called out, and the good doctor managed a hum of acknowledgement, his attention already pulled away from your retreating form. And if there was a second glance at you, it was nothing more than confirmation that the night was back to peace and quiet. 

-

“I am never going to recover from this.” 

“Mmm,” Scotty ground out, his arm elbow deep into the guts of the Enterprise. 

“I mean it, Monty!” You cried out, back flat on your bed, arm thrown across your face but leaving your mouth wide open to complain. “Jesus Christ and now I’ve gotten myself roped into beta shifts, ready to be bored out of my skull for a whole damn week. He thinks I’m an idiot. An idiot and insane!”

“D’you think?” Was the reply, but the lack of attention didn’t bother you one bit. You were barely paying attention. 

No, your head was running wild, with the fear that the greatest job you had, the job you were best at, was now at risk because of some dumb game you played with Christine. What if Dr. McCoy had heard all of it? What if he had just walked in because he had heard enough, and then you’d get called into his office, not a smirk in sight, and request your resignation? Could he do that? Off of a conversation? 

“Y/N!” Scotty called out, and that’s what finally broke your spiral downward, your body shooting up to a sitting position, looking up to see Scotty staring out of the bathroom at you. Your water was running, you could hear it, and Scott was grinning from ear to ear, some kind of tool tucked behind his ear. 

“All fixed,” he crowed with joy, brushing his hands off on his uniform. When he leaned on the doorway, his eyes were gazing around the rest of the place, as if it was just waiting to break on him, too. “Computer, shut down the shower. Now, what were you saying, lassie? Somethin’ about our chief medical officer, yes?” 

And as Scott smiled at you, no recognition of your crisis in him, you just smiled back, standing up to give him a hug. Even without saying anything, he had the best ideas.  
“Nothing, Monty. Thanks for the fix.” 

He was hustled out a few moments later, after a playful argument taking bets on what piece of machinery in this poor room would fall apart next (he was a fan of the faulty replicator, but you had a gut feeling it’d be the temperature control). But soon he was out of the room, and you knew that ignoring the whole thing would be the best option. 

Except with Christine, ignorance was never an option for bliss. When your padd beeped, and then your communicator, you were forced to answer the message, looking to see a little smiley face emoticon with a message that left your heart falling to the floor. 

“Your answer? :)”

Your answer? For the game? After all of that and Christine had the gall? But you could see her smile, even from this far, a smile that made you smirk. 

But they were the rules, and so the question was left in your head. What was your answer? What were the options?

You thought about it as you started to get ready for bed, t-shirt set on the counter in the bathroom, hot shower started. Your hair was put up before you stripped, your face splashed with water and a towel as steam began to fill the room. 

“Captain Kirk.” No personal experience with him, but you, like everyone on the ship, had seen him around. Had heard the legends. There wasn’t a soul who didn’t seem stricken by the love bug when it came to him, blond hair perfect, smile bright, blue eyes startlingly, well, blue. Friendly, quick, brave. He was the perfect man. But not everyone knew Christine. Christine, who’d had the lovely interaction with Cadet Kirk, at the time, who ended up kicking him out of your shared dorm room after a bad argument gone bad. The air was cleared enough that he managed to get polite smiles from her, but after that captain kirk never had the appeal. He was a playboy. His nature, his right, you supposed. But not for you. 

“Commander Spock.” Tall, handsome. But very Vulcan, and very taken. Now, you knew he had to have some kind of sweet side, and there was something, you guessed, about the confidence that his reliance on logic seemed to convey. After all, you’d heard him lecture a few times, and if you were honest that would’ve been when you were most attracted to him – using his knowledge and logic and proud spirit to lead others on the path toward serving the federation. But there was only so far that logic and a lack of emotion could go, and even though you’d heard of outbursts occurring where his emotion made their mark? No. Arguments aplenty. 

And who did that leave? 

“Dr. McCoy.” 

At that point, you still hadn’t entered the shower, and the computer was telling you that the water was about to automatically turn off to preserve the function of the ship’s supply, but your head was no longer in your bedtime ritual, instead thinking about the mysterious Dr. Mccoy, the infamous Dr. McCoy. 

The Dr. McCoy that made nurses cry every so often from his outbursts – never violent but fierce, always due to the protectiveness he had for his patients. The Dr. McCoy who was a doctor before he even became a cadet, with enough knowledge to fill a few books. The Dr. McCoy who had smirked at you with those dark and deep eyes, brown and full with some kind of life as he... Well, teased, southern accent lilting just a bit, maybe? That Dr. McCoy? The Dr. McCoy who saved lives and healed and always, always, always fought for more healthcare, for more hypos, for more protections for the nurses who somehow, even in the 24th century, managed to get pushed to the wayside? 

When you stepped in the shower, it took a second for your fingers to bang at the control panel, your legs held together, and with a quick setting manipulation the steam quickly cleared, the water’s temperature dropping to ice cold. You were in, and you were out, but by the time you had dressed and brushed your teeth color had crept on your cheeks again. 

All you could see were those eyes. 

“Fuck.” 

-

“Ah, Nurse Y/L/N,” the doctor said, eyes barely looking up from the singed hands of the red-shirt in front of him. “I need dermatological regen started here and a full body scan initiated on the biobed two over.” 

Like nothing had even happened. Like your nightmare interaction two weeks ago hadn’t resulted in you unintentionally taking night shifts, resulting in a fucked up circadian rhythm and bags under your eyes, not to mention hours bored out of your skull. 

Christine wasn’t here, and for once you were grateful. The last thing you needed was her eyes on you as you maneuvered around the doctor for a new shift while exhaustion lingered in the back of your mind. But it also meant that there was no one to offer a united front. Just you. 

“Nurse Y/L/N?” 

And you just spent the past minute mulling all of that in your mind. Making yourself look like a dumbass in front of the doc and his patient. The patient hadn’t noticed, staring at his own hands in horror, but Dr. McCoy seemed like he was regretting letting you back on to handle days. 

Shit. 

“You got it, doc,” you managed with a kind smile at the engineer, whose face you could now see as you walked past him toward the wall. Your hands expertly manipulated to storage system, and with the tricorder kept at your waist you gathered the necessities.

The great thing – you were damn good at what you did. Especially when you could focus on it. Your face was bright, uniform neat (until it wasn’t due to fluids of some kind), and your hands were steady. And no complicated patients came in that day, especially since no away missions were sent out and nothing malfunctioned horribly deep within the ship’s bowels.

And yet, no matter what you did, no matter how competent you showed you were, no matter how many laughs or smiles or even nods from the most stubborn of usual patients? Eyes were on you. Dark, deep eyes. The whole day, no matter where you went, a furrowed brow and focused tailed you, watching your interactions. 

All in all, a good day. A great day, even, as you injected your last hypo and the padd reported a normal set of vitals, no reaction to the medication after fifteen minutes.

The shift was over, now. It was a good shift, one that required no personal defense. You gave report to the next nurse, said goodbye to the others on-duty. Your jacket put on, your hair pulled down and back up after the frizz of the day had ruined it. Nothing really to note. 

So why did the doctor not let you out of his sight? 

The rest of the week, the same routine. The flow you had gotten into on alpha shifts returned, and your week of off nights was left behind in favor of much better mornings. Back on track, the same old, same old. And yet with every shift there was a new weight, those eyes on you. It felt like if he wasn’t tending to a patient, and he wasn’t in his office in the back of the bay, he was watching you. Critical of every injection and admission. You were starting to go a little crazy with it, your mind going a million miles an hour, second guessing the simplest stuff just so you wouldn’t fuck up in front of the CMO.  
But after a while, the fear of failure turned into anger. 

What right did the doctor have to analyze like that? You were a great nurse! You treated your patients and coworkers fairly, with respect and compassion. What was there to complain about? You knew your shit, and here was McCoy, looking like the Enterprise regretted your assignment there in the first place. By the end of the week, that anger had built up, and once the weekend rolled around, and your two off days in a row loomed, you decided you were done. 

“Is there something on my uniform, Dr. McCoy?” You asked, terse as you organized the vaccine cart, the new year meaning new yearly injections to follow up on. 

His fingers had been steadily scrolling through files of crew members, but their nimble work paused at your question. His eyes had taken a break from tearing you apart, but now they were focused on you once again. 

“Excuse me, Nurse Y/L/N?” He asked, his face looking almost pinched. 

“I was just wondering if there was something on my uniform. Or in my teeth, perhaps. Something in my hair, maybe, too.” Your hands kept chugging along, automatically rearranging the colored liquids, but there was a tightness you couldn’t shake, a tension. 

“Something in your hair?” The doctor repeated, and at his tone, somewhat amused, you finally turned to face him, your brow raised in a mimic of his. 

“Well, there’s gotta be something, considering that you haven’t gone five minutes without staring at me like I’m your least favorite sight in the world. So, what is it? Uniform out of regs? Did I administer a medication wrong? Did a patient complain?” 

At that point, the amusement had turned to indignation, maybe even anger. His jaw was clenched, and the padd in his hands had been abandoned on the desk in favor of crossed arms over his chest. 

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, nurse,” he ground out, eyes flicking around the med bay. But there was no one to look at. No one to distract or overhear. 

You couldn’t help your laugh. “Oh, I think you do,” you snapped, and almost mocking him, your arms crossed as well, a hip cocked, your eyes like daggers. “Ever since I came back on alpha shift, you’ve been doing all you can to catch me in a fuck-up. Well, it’s not happening! I’m damn good at what I do, and no amount of posturing, even from the CMO, would ever change that!” 

His scoff was hard, arms uncrossing so a hand could pull through his hair in disbelief. “Darlin’,” he said, slowly, as if you were dense, “There’s no posturing going on. Your abilities aren’t being doubted. Hell, I don’t even know your first name. Whatever story you’ve got going on in your head? It’s a story!” 

His frustration showed through his accent, a southern drawl that got thicker as his sentences rambled on. But that couldn’t distract you from calling him out on his bullshit, no matter his position.  
“I’m not senile,” you huffed, eyes rolling hard, and your steps closer were unconscious, crowding him against the desk he was leaning on now. “And I’m definitely not blind. So, tell me what your problem is with me, so I can go back to focusing on my job, and you can go back to focusing on yours!” 

“There’s no damn problem!” His voice was almost a yell now, but you had no fear, and you sure as hell weren’t backing down. “It’s nothing. Hell, there isn’t anything to be nothing.”  
And then it clicked, it clicked, as you stared into brown eyes that wavered for a second, that scanned you top to bottom in a split second. A break, a tell, whatever it was, the pieces were put together, and you stood tall, not letting his height on you intimidate. 

“You overheard me and Christine, didn’t you?” It was low. “Is that what it is?” 

“Overheard.” The clench in his jaw hadn’t loosened, but you watched that brow tick upwards again, his arms uncrossing so his hands could rest on the desk.

“When you walked in on us, last week,” you clarified. “You overheard our game.” 

The anger was gone now. Now that everything had slotted into place, you weren’t angry. A little bit embarrassed maybe, but not angry. Frustration felt like it was leaking out of you, but the tension wasn’t gone. The standoff wasn’t broken. And after all of what, you had just yelled at your superior officer. 

“Dr. McCoy,” you started, uncrossing your arms, and holding them up to offer a truce. “I apologize. For yelling. That… well, it shouldn’t have been my first move. But. I can explain, if you want me to.”  
There was no verbal reply, but his exasperation came through with a huff, and he simply lifted a hand, gesturing for you to go on. 

“It’s just a game we’ve played since the academy. It was inappropriate to play while Christine was on shift. I apologize for that as well,” you told him pulling back to glance once more at the sliding doors, which mercifully stayed closed. “It won’t happen again, I promise.” 

“Just a game,” he repeated, and at first you didn’t catch the shift in his tone. Didn’t connect it with the glance toward the doors, or the way he stood from the desk, so that you were almost close enough to brush against him. “Just a game… using the names of your captain, commander, and chief medical officer?” 

“Yes,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m sorry for that, as well, that definitely won’t be happening again.” 

“A game talkin’ about who you’d rather have in your bed.” 

Your eyes shot back to him, color flooding your cheeks. 

“I’m… I’m sorry?” 

“Well, that’s the game, isn’t it?” He said with a shrug, and as he leaned forward you could feel your breath catch in your throat, looking up into a face you imagined in your own quarters in the dead of night, as you let steaming water hit your skin. His jaw wasn’t clenched anymore, and his voice was a low rumble. 

It wasn’t a threat. But it gave you goosebumps all the same, that the bass of his words, and you managed to nod, swallowing even as you kept your chin lifted.  
“That’s the game. Is there a problem?” 

And God, there was that smirk. Warm like whisky, it made your hands clench, your legs shift as that warmth rushed through you. 

“No problem at all,” he hummed, and as he leaned close those lips brushed past your cheek. You could smell his cologne now, spice flooding your nose, the antiseptic of the day fading away. The chill in the air that always seemed to linger was gone, nothing but heat on your mind. Right in your ear you heard him, after a low chuckle that made you want to scream, beg him to get on with it. “I guess I’ve just been wondering what you would’ve answered, had I not… interrupted.” 

Lunchtimes were surely coming to an end. Any second a patient could come in, could see the both of you crowded against the desk and know exactly why the whole place felt like an oven. But something possessed you, then, to bring one of your hands to his shoulder, the other to his hip, and lean just as close, almost pushing up on your toes to whisper right back. 

“Give you one guess.” 

Matches. That’s what that kiss felt like, a box of matches all lighting at once – the spark and the flash and explosion of heat as Dr. McCoy pulled back just enough to press his lips against yours. Nothing gentle, nothing kind, just a ferocity that made you moan against his mouth. His hands, broad and hot, began to roam on your back, settling just enough to pull you ever closer, so that your bodies were flush against each other. Your hand ended up twisted in his hair, the other fisted in his shirt. And just like matches, it was the start of a fire, one that had you both stumbling towards his office, the door sliding behind you with a quiet hiss. 

“You were teasing me,” he ground out, directing you between kisses until the back of your thighs were against his desk. His hands gripped you then, around the waist, lifting you so you could sit. “And you didn’t even know it. Your voice over and over in my head, thinking about how it’d sound with my name.” 

“So, you stare at my ass instead of asking me, hmm? What a southern gentleman,” you laughed, and for that you got teeth against your neck, a hand shoving your skirt up. The tips of his fingers seemed to skate over your skin, tickling your inner thigh. But those slow circles never quite got where you wanted, just left burning trails in their wake. “Talk about teasing.” 

“At’s what you get for having a smart mouth,” he chuckled, face still against your neck. But soon he was back to kissing you, making your head spin. 

“That I know how to use,” you shot back, once again between presses of lips and gasps of air. “I’m – I’m not just a pretty face.” 

“Never said you were,” he purred, and this time both hands lifted your skirt high, reaching for the panties that did a poor job of hiding anything. “But why don’t you let me use my mouth first?”  
“What an offer.” One you certainly wouldn’t refuse, especially since he looked hungry for it, for you. 

There was a brief moment’s hesitation, his finger curled around the elastic and so close to ripping them off. But while his body was begging for it, his pants more than a little tight, his eyes met yours. 

“Is that a yes?” He asked, his tongue running along his lips as he got to his knees. 

Your gaze didn’t waver, a grin coming over you. “That’s a fucking yes, sir.”  
His grin matched yours, sharp and wily as he rid you of your underwear, hands on your knees so he could pull them apart. You were bare to the cool air, and your teeth caught your lower lip as he leaned forward with a hot gasp on your inner thigh. 

“Fucking gorgeous.” 

The first thing you felt was the swipe of his tongue, a furious push against where you were wettest. A taste, almost, before he licked a line through your folds until his mouth enveloped your clit. You were swollen, desperate for it, and your gasp was thick as fingers once again tangled in his hair. If you said anything, it was a “please,” a “yes,” a “god, right there” as he worked. 

He took you apart with his mouth, no hesitation as his tongue worked you over, swirling around your clit as a finger began to tease your entrance. It was with a gasp you came, his hand spreading you open with two fingers inside of you, and when you were able to see straight you saw that grin again, his chin wet, his lips red. 

“Holy shit, Doc,” you huffed, your hand falling from his hair to his chin, thumb swiping across the mess and bringing it up to your mouth so you could get a taste of yourself. He did you one better, leaning forward to kiss you again, and the taste of him and you made you smile. 

“Leonard.” 

“Leonard,” you repeated, and when you pulled back his smile was softer. Almost… vulnerable. “Suits you.” 

“Well, I hope so,” he laughed. “It is my name.” 

“And it’s my turn,” you pointed out, reaching for his waistband. “I think you should move to the chair.”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @qvid-pro-qvo on tumblr.com for more reader-inserts!


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